


Your Mileage May Vary (previously 'For Radagasts')

by Oruka



Category: Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oruka/pseuds/Oruka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of my delightful stalkees over on tumblr expressed a desire: "I want a car chase scene through the Welsh backroads with Thorin at the helm and Bilbo in the passenger seat being utterly terrified ok"</p><p>Well, I get to write a love letter to my end of the world and send the majestic line of Durin on a mini adventure? That's more than okay!</p><p>Here's the first bit. It might turn out a little darker than it first appears, but believe me when I say: Snowdonia's roads are not for the young and foolish. Unchecked, unbeta'd, which I will fix soon. Read on~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Are you nearly finished?”

“Nearly.” Fíli turned the last screw into place and sat back on the saddle, admiring his work - and himself - in the freshly appointed right hand mirror. “Well done us. All fourteen tuned and tarted up a week early.”

Kíli stood back and looked the bike over, then scanned down the ranks of motorbikes that lined the cavern’s dark grey walls. Formerly a national vault, it was now their uncle’s garage, filled with his personal collection, cars from every era and for every purpose, and gorgeous touring bikes, seven on either side. Everyone for miles around coveted them and made no bones about it, but where they were kept was a family secret.

“Maybe he’ll let us go with him this time.”

“Us? Fat chance.”

“He takes Ori though.”

“Ori’s the club treasurer, he kinda has to go on meets.” Fíli slipped off the bike and stood by his brother, wiping the grime from his hands onto an even grimier rag. They had done very well, that was no exaggeration. Over the past two months they had taken each of the fourteen motors apart, piece by tiny piece, and cleaned and repaired and checked and oiled as they effectively rebuilt each one from its own parts. The summer touring season was coming up, and thanks to their hard work, these beautiful old beasts would run sweet as a nut, but Fíli and Kíli would not be among those riding. Kíli's licence was still green, and Fíli would have to man the shop while Thorin and his buddies went off on their grand drink-and-drive tour of Eryri and beyond. At least they were being left behind together, though.

“We’d better get back down to the hafod. Ma will be waiting for us.”

Kíli nodded, not wanting to take his eyes off the gleaming machines, then followed his brother out of the garage, the both of them leaning their full weight onto the door to slide it home, close all its locks, and tramp away from the vault, down the hill to Hafod Ysbyty.

 

Thorin had come home in a mood, steaming over a tourist who had pushed his motor onto the forecourt and asked him to ‘fix it nice and quick, yeah?’ only to sit and direct Thorin at his own damned job, insult his beard, and then have the audacity to ask for a discount. Not one to take such rudeness lying down, Thorin had sent out what Fíli referred to as the ‘Oakensignal’ and within an hour the same driver was arrested by one PC Gloin for inconsiderate road use with a side-order of sheep-worrying. Thorin didn’t stop spitting tacks that easily, though, and it wasn’t until after dinner, when the boys and Dís encouraged him to go up to the vault that his good humour returned.

Gruff though he may be, his nephews were turning out into fine young engineers and he was deeply proud of them, today more than ever. Their work was beyond compare. Nothing would change his mind about letting them tag along, though. It was touring season, and work would be coming in thick and fast, whether he was there or not. Not just bikes, but cars and busses, maybe even the odd tractor. The debate didn’t last long - their debates rarely did where a profit was involved - and the hafod lights were out by ten, brother, sister, and nephews all asleep.

At around five in the morning, something slithered up Kíli's spine. Not an animal, or a spider, but the sense of cool panic each of them got when the other was up to something, or in deep trouble. Often both.

Pretty soon he got a foot in the back as well. He rolled over and scowled sleepily into Fíli's twilit face.

“Kíli,” his brother hissed, “shake a leg.”

“No. You find your own way to the loo.”

“Speak for yourself. I’ve got an idea, we need to go now.”

“It’s _Sunday_. I’m not shifting ‘til after mum’s awful radio show is done.”

“Your hatred of _The Archers Omnibus_ is legendary but irrelevant.”

“Your _face_ is irrelevant,” Kíli snarled, but sat up anyway, thick duvets pulled up to keep his shoulders warm as Fíli sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed and leaned forwards to whisper, conspiratorially.

“Uncle needs the bikes next Friday, right? So. What’s to say we can’t make sure they’re all working properly first? Test-drive them, as it were.”

It took a while for Kíli to sleepwalk through the words and arrive at what Fíli was actually saying.

“This is one of those times when I question how you get to be called the mature one. But that. That is a very sensible idea.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Unexpected Drive-By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, Bilbo. You have the best bad friends.

Bilbo Baggins had slept very well indeed. True, this place wasn’t quite Bagendon, it was quite a bit more open than he really liked, but it had the same green Cotswold charm of the Shires, complete with ponies nodding at the back wall and cream teas every mile or so, and since retiring early on the proceeds of a very well-timed venture into Arkenstone technologies, moving to Betws-y-Coed had felt like coming home after a lifetime abroad. Every night, he had a full, hearty supper, and slept through until dawn, when he would wake, and rouse the stove, and potter down the road in his wellies to get fresh milk from farmer no-really-my-name-actually-is Giles.

He had just latched the garden gate behind him when he heard a rumbling in the forested mountains to the south.

“Dragons at Dolwyddelan, no doubt,” he said, nodding to his little yellow poppies. “Nothing Thorin’s boys can’t handle,” and with a chuckle in his throat he crossed the threshold into the warm cottage kitchen, and shut the old oak door behind him.

 

Twenty minutes later, a pair of such dragons roared past his window. Bilbo looked up from his black pudding, half-concerned, half-curious, but saw nothing. He fought with the cat for access to the paper (and lost) and tucked back into his breakfast, the happiest, most comfortable man for miles.

 

At seven thirty-seven, he was out in his front garden again, enjoying the morning sunlight as it broke over the hills to the East, admiring the sumptuous cottage garden he had lovingly established, and, most importantly, indulging his one true vice: a twice-daily pipe of finest shag tobacco. The pipe had been his grandfather’s, and as a boy he had thought the thing both pompous and hilarious, but having settled into the stout figure of a well-to-do man, it had become apparent that a pipe was far more handsome than a flimsy cigarette.

The flowers in the border nodded to him in the breeze, and he nodded back, as he tended to do, pleased with the fruits of a good six years’ labour. He was looking forward to an easy day of sitting back, as the garden was bursting up so quickly that any serious work would be re-grown within days.

What he was not looking forward to was the unmistakable sound of a Bentley Continental getting air off the crest of the hill up the road.

“Oh, _ffwc_ ,” he cussed, and quickly folded up his camp stool and scarpered back inside. Thorin and he were the closest of friends, but that car - that car was a beautiful, seductive powerhorse who just begged like a temptress for more acceleration and he had never taken a ride in it where they had not been pulled over by at least one policeman. If Thorin was bearing down on him with that car in gear, nothing good could come of it. As the thrumming engine pulled to a stop (never screeching: Thorin might push his vehicles to run hard, but he treated them well), Bilbo pressed his back to the door and shrank down into the shadows, wishing himself immaterial.

The heavy door shook as Thorin’s heavier fist pounded down upon it.

“ _Bilbo!_ ”

“ _No!_ ” Bilbo squeaked, “I am _not_ getting in that car with you!”

“Yes you bloody well are!” And then, surprise, surprise, the tip of one knife appeared in the sliver-thin gap between door and jamb, nudging upwards at the old-fashioned latch, and another rattling noise told Bilbo that his lock was being picked. He should never have taught him how to do that.

“You leave my house alone, Oakenshield, I am not going joyriding with you!”

“It’s not joyriding if it’s my own bloody car you carrot—”

The lock clunked, the latch lifted, and Bilbo was hauled out into the open, two thick arms holding him up by the shoulders as his bare feet dangled, hopelessly, four inches clear of the grass.

“I need you to come with me, Bilbo, it’s important.”

“It’s _Sunday_. I was looking forward to _The Archers!_ ”

“You can come round and use the iPlayer at my place, but I need you with me on this. Buckle up, have a fag. You’re going to need it.”

“What?” Thorin was actually doing up his seatbelt for him. “Look, I’m flattered, but I’ve told you, I’m not actually—”

“Light a _cigarrette_ , Baggins, we are going to drive fast.”

It was all Bilbo could do to wail in protest as the Bentley pulled away from his gate, and rolled right through his favourite pink marguerites.

 

_Thorin ffwccing Oakenshield._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Welsh for 'carrot' is _moron._ Good to know. Apologies to any native Welsh speakers, my jumbled Gwynedd/Sir Benfro mix is abominable at best, please feel free to laugh at me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you sold delicious chocolate from a house by a river, you'd call it the Riverside Chocolate House, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilbo's exchange in this chapter is what sprung to the fore when I first read the prompt. That's not to say we're done yet, though! There's at least another chapter to come.

“Where are you taking me _now?_ ” Bilbo asked, unashamed, for once, of the desperate squeal that his voice had become the moment Thorin’s foot had hit the clutch. “Better not be bloody Mynnedd Borffor again, we nearly died. Remember us, nearly dying?”

Thorin clearly wasn’t listening. He was more concerned with breaking the speed limit as soon as was humanly possible. He growled into the dashboard,

“Came home last night, my boys had done a bang-up job servicing my bikes. Beautiful, all of them, it’s taken them months, getting them ready for the big ride next week. I go to bed, there’s fourteen—”

They had reached the hump-backed bridge at the T-junction in the middle of Betws-y-Coed. Even a raging Durin boy would slow down here. Nobody wanted to be the one who ploughed head-first into the pub. Thorin even had the courtesy to indicate to the empty road ahead.

“Fourteen there last night, all shining, sparkling diamonds among tar—” He muttered under his breath about the appalling turning circle and made the car snarl away from the junction, startling a council of ravens. Accelerator to the floor, he urged the Bentley north.

“—And this morning I go to thank my boys, take them to the pub for lunch, you know, but they’re not there. So maybe they’re up at the garage, they love tinkering with those beauties as much as you or I—”

“Actually, I’m particularly fond of my Morris Minor 1000—”

“Only there’s only twelve bikes in the shed.”

There was a beat of silence.

Only a beat, mind.

_“Those boys are going to be grounded so **fwccing** hard, fwccing **Rapunsel** will feel sorry for them!”_

 

If Bilbo could have edged away, he would have done so. There were three things you did not provoke: Dragons, Arsenal fans, and the Line of Durin. He let Thorin seethe in the driver’s seat while he obsessively packed his pipe with some of the baccy Fíli kept stashed down inside the door pocket, just for Bilbo’s sake. The Durin line was known for its sturdy hearts, and Thorin’s boys were loyal to a fault. They were brave, they were honourable, they were the kind of people who you would be proud to call your friends. But they were young, they were out on unfamiliar bikes, and this, after all, was Eryri.

“Are you sure they came this way?” asked Bilbo, voice tight as he tried to swallow his nerves and inhale his smoke all in one go.

“Of course they came this way. A5, northbound, down Dyffryn Ogwen towards Bangor. It’s the biker’s wet dream.”

“It’s the biker’s sweet death.”

“Let’s hope not. Not today, not my boys. You all tucked in? Let’s see if we can't give ol’ concorde something to think about!”

 

In essence, Thorin had been right. The brothers’ plan had indeed been to tour up to Llyn Ogwen and cruise leisurely down the valley while the mist was still blue and mysterious, but after passing Bilbo’s house, they’d stopped on the bridge and changed their minds. With a two-hour headstart, they had turned right, and followed the river southbound.

 

“I think I remember this place,” Kíli murmured, laying on his stomach in the riverbank’s dew-damp grass, up to his elbows in the ice-cold stream. Young, sweet trout came up to have their bellies tickled by his fingers. He wasn’t going to take one today, but this was evidently a good place to catch them, keen as they were to be caught.

“Yeah, I’m fairly sure I remember this place. A long, hazy time ago.”

“Really? I’m surprised.”

Fíli sat some way up the bank, leaning against the wall of the bridge as he rolled a pristine cigarette between fingers and thumbs, the bikes pinking and steaming behind him. “We used to live all up and down this road, before you were born,” he said. “We had to keep moving on, it was a nightmare. I was only three, must have been a terror for poor ma.”

“Why did we have to keep moving?”

“Something to do with us being _tramorwyr_ , I suppose. Didn’t settle until Thorin called on Balin and Dwalin for help. Apparently, an ancient law that was never scrubbed meant that, if they could build a house between sunset and sunrise, and have smoke come out of its chimney, they could have it and the land it was built on, gratis.”

“Thorin built ma a _house?_ ”

“You’ve seen him build a hovercraft in nine hours, what makes an overnight house sound so impossible?” Fíli caught his brother’s eye and smirked. Impossible both was and was not a family trait.

Kíli grinned at his reflection in the freezing waters.

“But that’s not Hafod Ysbyty.”

“Nah, Thorin bought the hafod off some Scottish fella called Hamish.” Fíli admired his perfectly cylindrical cigarette before slipping it into his jacket’s breast pocket, neatly hidden under wide fox-fur lapels. He loosened and re-tightened his belt around a waist which was still a notch too narrow for his liking. “But the house they built is still around. Want to go see it?”

Kíli stood, shaking the water from his hands. “Okay. So long as we can come back when this place is open,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the house into whose garden they had trespassed. “Chocolate House? Sounds tasty.”

“Oh, my brother fears no living thing, nor even diabetes.” Fíli swung his leg effortlessly over his bike and kicked the ignition into life. It growled. “Aha, now that? That sound is _delicious_.”

They slid out of the car park, Fíli leading them back onto the northbound road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hamish is my late Grandfather, an RAF pilot/shepherd who sold the hafod and its sheep farm to move to London, where my mother and uncle went through middle school. Hafod Ysbyty is the family pile, in that sense. I never lived there myself, but I have visited the family who do, and consider it part of my heritage. There really is a vault up the hill, too - where items from the National Gallery were stored to protect them from the Blitz. They never taught me _that_ in school!
> 
> Yes, these places are all real places, and I've used the local names wherever I can (bonus points: Tolkein's elvish dialects bear a syntactical resemblance to Welsh), but Mynnedd Borffor is my translation of Purple Mountain, a _very_ pretty massif in County Kerry, Ireland. Purple Mountian is the Erebor of our tale. It's not very lonely or very pointy, but it really is purple!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> North of Betws-y-Coed, Fíli makes an unscheduled pit-stop in a place he once called home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I made it sad. Also, beware of the bad joke.

By the time the boys rode back past the junction at Betws-y-Coed, their uncle had only just begun to fathom their absence. They still had an hour’s head-start. Fíli was, arbitrarily, leading the way, but it was a Sunday, and Sundays in rural, church-going North Wales were still and quiet. They rode side-by-side for almost three miles east from Betws-y-Coed, until they came to a sharp one-two jink across the river, Fíli slowing right down to a crawl, waiting for his little brother to catch on to what was up ahead.

“That?” Kíli gasped, flipping his visor up to take in the view. “You’re telling me Thorin built _that?_ ”

  
Just up ahead, raised a few yards up from the road, stood a squat little one-room house so small that there were mail-order Wendy houses that would laugh at it. It was built of thick stone. Thick, unshaped stone, which stood out all jagged and unfinished, just as it had been on the day Thorin and his allies had laid the mortar. Even now a curl of smoke rose dreamily from the chimney-stack, drifting easily into the morning sky as though there was not one single problem in the world.

“Tŷ Hyll,” declared Fíli, “The Ugly House. Now, guess where you were born?”

 

They were almost silent as they came across the bridge, and pushed the bikes up the narrow driveway off the road, walking the last twenty yards uphill to stand in the house’s small but practical kitchen garden. Fíli turned to say something about their uncle’s taste not improving over the years, but Kíli was not, for once, at his side.  
He had taken a seat on the garden wall, beside a small pen corralling three hens, and he was staring, open-mouthed, at the stumpy little cottage, and looked to be in some sort of shock. Fíli joined him.

“You’re buffering.”

“I was born… here?” Kíli whispered, “As in, I was actually born inside this building?”

“In the Ugly House, yeah. Accounts for your looks.” Fíli promptly toppled sideways from an elbow to the ribs. “The house was barely a week old when Ma went into labour. I was crying, everyone was on tenterhooks of course, none of the Oakenposse are much good with childbirth. But it all went well in the end.”

He slipped a hand round Kíli's back, urging him to his feet and walking him up the garden path to the wonky front door. He knocked.

“Fíli, no!” hissed Kíli, between his teeth. “It’s a _Sunday,_ you don’t call on strangers on a Sunday!”

“Relax, I’m fairly sure this one doesn’t give two hoots for Sundays.”

 

It had become a running gag around Ffestiniog that whenever someone came into the workshop, Fíli would be leaning on the counter, looking very pleased with himself, while elsewhere Kíli desperately tried not to look like he was having a mild panic attack. His eyes now widened in horror; his brother was going to get them into trouble with a complete stranger, first thing on a Sunday morning, and all he could do was slip into that _oh, Dewi Sant, no_ expression and stand there, Fíli's arm gripped tight to his waist, pinning him to the spot as the door eased open, and the smell of succulent grilled pork came rolling through.

“Oh, hello boys!” cried the man at the door, a fat bacon butty already half-eaten in his hand. “Come you in, Bombur’s doin' breakfast.”

 

 

Bofur stood back to let them pass and Kíli found himself being pushed into the tiny little cottage in which he had allegedly been born. It was warm, it was snug, and for such a tiny place, it had an awful lot of furniture in it. At the far end of the room, under the window in the end wall was a workbench, piled high with racks of tools and wood, waiting their turn to be made into toys. Three beds, once considerably larger than the others, and a sturdy, knobbly table and stools filled the middle of the room, while the end held up by the chimney-stack had been entirely given over to a very well-appointed kitchen. No electrics here, though. The cook, who took up most of the kitchen himself, pulled a frying pan out of the fire’s glowing embers, and tipped a dozen enormous sausages onto a warm plate.

“Knew you’d be coming,” Bombur rumbled, welcoming them with a smile. “Made extra, just in case.”

“You knew?” Fíli asked, as they each took a seat and great, steaming platters of breakfast were set down before them. “We didn’t tell anyone we were on the way.”

“Nah,” said Bofur, “Bifur had one of those _feelin's,_ you know? Said to 'spect guests before eight, an' here you are.” In the corner, his nose in the morning paper, Bifur chuckled to himself.

“Now.” Bofur briefly set his sandwich down and took up his pipe instead, sitting opposite the boys and leaning over the table towards them. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“But you just said Bifur-”

“Where you are an' where you’re supposed to be ain't always the same thing, lads. You’re supposed to be in the shop today, but instead you’re out on your Uncle’s bikes at an ungodly hour in the mornin', bikes you’ve only ever known stationary, am I wrong?”

They looked at each other. Kíli had been right, they were in trouble.

“Ach, don’ fuss, I’m not gonna dob you in,” he pointed his pipe at them and waved it between them, warningly. His braids waggled in tandem. “But if Thorin comes askin', I’m not gonna lie. Understand?”

“Understood,” they chimed.

“Smashing! Now, let me tell you the tale of Thorin’s crew an' the one-night cottage…”

 

 

And off he went, rambling away, occasionally getting so carried off with the story that his accent grew too thick even for the boys to understand. They’d never heard so much about their own father in one sitting before. They ate and ate, Bombur never letting their plates run empty, and before their tea had even cooled down to tepid, forty-five minutes had passed. They had learned a lot in the intervening time, including a possible cause for their uncle’s dislike of the parish cleric, Thranduil, who had refused to visit the house to bless the newborn Kíli because the structure had not yet been approved by the health and safety committee.

“ _Health an' safety_ indeed,” Bofur scoffed. “His son falls in love an' runs off to Ynys Môn with Gloin’s boy an' he takes it all out on the rest of us just for wishin' the lovebirds well.”

Every twenty-something for miles around had been through school with the pastor’s and the policeman’s sons, and in spite of the vicious - truly _vicious_ \- fights they had initially had, the two of them came to be thick as thieves, and had become the de facto leaders of the local kids. That was before Fíli and Kíli's time, however, but the adventures of their precedents had become the stuff of legend, Legolas and Gimli accomplishing feats that would take a lot of guile to best.

They rose from their seats, thankful for the impromptu breakfast, and took their leave, Kíli almost walking off with a fresh mug of tea, and they were half-way down the drive when Bofur called out from the house,

“Boys, you mind yourselves on that road, understand? We already lost your father. We couldn’ bear to lose you, too.”

There was a sadness in his voice that they never had heard from anyone but Dís before, the sorrow for something that was dearly loved and sorely missed. Their father’s last moments had been a mystery to them since the moment he left the house, their questions turned aside for so long that they had stopped asking. All they ever understood was that he had gone to Bangor and never came home. Belting up and donning their helmets once more, Fíli wheeled his bike to the edge of the drive, but Kíli lingered, looking up at the little ugly house, with its rough-hewn masonry and quietly smoking chimney-stack, and wishing he had been old enough to miss his father, too.

 

The road stretched on before them. Dyffryn Ogwen lay ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Elfin safety._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Bentley Continental doesn't become a rally car by putting 'Speed' on the wings. It becomes a rally car by putting Thorin at the helm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've learned how to do AO3 formatting and fixed this chapter's layout at last!

Bilbo had his knees tucked up to his chest, teeth clenched tight around the tip of his pipe as loose tobacco jumped out of the bowl, fleeing before disaster. It had been a while since he had blinked. Being in a fast car with a riled Thorin was rapidly climbing to the top of his list of things he never wanted to do. Too late now, though.

The suggestion that Thorin was anything less than an exceptionally good driver was ludicrous. Having said that, even good driving can be terrifying when performed at speed, and the next bump in the road was coming up fast—

Bilbo felt the car leave the ground, he himself only kept from slamming into the roof by his seatbelt, stomach tumbling and heart going ten to the dozen as they travelled a good five yards without touching the road, coming back down to earth with a bump.

“ _Damnit Thorin!_ ” He broke at last, and felt a small twinge of satisfaction as the steering wheel wobbled once. “Why are you involving me in this at all?”

“Because,” Thorin replied, wiggling the steering column to avoid a pothole, “You’re my voice of reason, and if they haven’t killed themselves already, I’m going to need you to talk me down from doing it myself.”

“Oh really,” said Bilbo, trying to make his voice drip with sarcasm, to little effect. “Well at least it’s nothing potentially life-threatening like standing between you and a bad idea - oh but that’s _exactly what this is, isn’t it!_ ”

He was then thrown sideways into the door, dropping his pipe into the footwell as the car bore right, then swung round to the left again, sending him lurching across the gearbox, his seatbelt nearly strangling him in its attempt to keep him from lying problematically across Thorin’s lap.

“This isn’t a rally you know! _Thorin!_ ” He was aware of a prickling sensation as tears started to rise just behind his eyes, a lump threatening to form in his throat. He was going to die. He was going to blaze through the veil sideways in a disgustingly beautiful car with a deranged, bewhiskered mechanic at the wheel and then he was _definitely_ going to miss _The Archers._

 

They very narrowly avoided riding up the bank at Tŷ Hyll, Bifur waving vaguely from the brassica patch, and emerged from the densely wooded riverbed onto a long straight, long slivers of mountains lying, knife-like and grey-capped in the distance, the road ahead dotted with dirty-white sheep. Well, maybe a straight was not the right term. The next few miles of tarmac undulated with the sodden earth beneath, swaying seductively around hillocks and lonely rocks, through summer-green fallows and rough, half-eaten stubble. But though the fields were divided from each other, not all were cordoned off from the road and their occupants liked, from time to time, to show off their suicidal tendencies. As did Thorin. The engine thrummed in anticipation of more fuel.

“I can see them. Coming up to the lake, I can see them.” Right enough, up ahead, and only just distinguishable, riding jackets of prussian blue and sandy brown slid side-by-side around the final bend and out of sight. Thorin dropped into third gear. “Hold tight.”

“Thorin— No, Thorin, _please_ don’t floor it, I can’t cope when you floor it—”

 

The Bentley threw itself onto the road as through it had sprung to life, quickly gathering pace, throwing the road under its wheels at an ever-increasing rate. Thorin had disabled the speed limiter - of course he had - and before long the only thing stopping the car from taking off was its considerable weight.

Bilbo could no longer help himself. With a heartbroken wail, he started to cry for real, the path ahead becoming blessedly blurry as his eyes filled with tears. With one hand, he put a stranglehold around the door handle, snatched at Thorin’s sleeve with the other, clutching the fabric so tight in his fingers that it might have torn. From that point on the next few miles were a turbulent nightmare, the only input the sway of the car around him, the bright morning light dimming and growing against his shuttered eyelids as the whole car nodded in sympathy with the road below. Thorin shouted at livestock and pummelled the horn, all the while maintaining speed, slaloming two tonnes of high-velocity steel back and forth like he was teaching the waltz and nothing could be simpler. The ground rose beneath them, and for another gut-churning moment they were airborne, and the only stable sensation Bilbo could cling to was the warmth of Thorin’s skin, seeping through the single layer of rough linen in his hand.

They came down hard, the car bouncing on impact, but Bilbo’s troubles were far from over. He tried to take a few deep, calming breaths, and opened his eyes just in time to be treated to the sight of a tractor pulling a long, low trailer onto the road ahead.

“We’re—”

“We’re going round it!” Thorin heaved the steering wheel hard to the right, directing the Bentley across the opposite lane, off the road and up into the field alongside, only narrowly avoiding a headlong shunt into the start of the dividing ditch. Bilbo had still been attached to his sleeve, but was now pulled away from his anchor on the door and held fast to Thorin’s arm with both hands, so certain that he would meet his end that he could no longer muster the voice to cry.

The Bentley certainly wasn’t a rally car but she did a damned fine impression of one, and for more than a mile - less than a minute - she skimmed through wildflowers and flocks of sheep, and flew through gaps in the low stone walls, bucking and pitching on the uneven turf, until the ditch closed and Thorin could coax her back onto the road. They made it with two hundred yards to spare. Any later and they would have met a very watery fate, as the mountains rose steeply on either side, the road traced round to the left, and the fields fed right into Llyn Ogwen's glassy surface, the waters not deep, but dark, and dangerous.

 

 

“Breathe, Bilbo.”

“I— you—! What—”

“I need you to be calm, Bilbo, _breathe._ ” They had slowed down considerably, as the road wobbled this way and that, skirting the edge of the long, narrow lake. They were very nearly obeying the speed limit.

“If you wanted me calm,” Bilbo hissed, “you should have left me to my breakfast, not kidnapped me and shoved me in a car just so I could be an accomplice to you disrespecting every road in Conwy!”

“Just be glad we’re nearly in Gwynedd, then.”

“The _lake_ is in Gwynedd, Thorin, we very nearly _were_ in Gwynedd up to our necks!”

“See? You’re talking geopolitics now, you’ve calmed right down.” Thorin almost smiled. “You can let go, too.”

“Sorry? Oh, right…”

Feeling a little embarrassed, Bilbo released his tense grip on Thorin’s arm and tried to settle into the passenger seat, which was, by anyone’s estimations, far too large for him. He rolled down the window, sucking clean lake air in through his nose and letting it out, slowly, between his lips. Maybe everything would be okay after all. Up ahead was the little tea shack which stood at the head of the valley, its cladding freshly painted in its familiar TARDIS blue, visible for miles. Always popular, and always ready to serve hot tea and heavy cakes to the various fishermen, mountaineers, motorists, and misguided travellers who ventured along their path, no matter what the weather, or the hour of night.

“Quite a crowd there, can you see them?”

“Aye, I can see them. Fíli stands out a mile.” Bilbo looked again. There must have been a good few dozen bikers milling around, coming and going in twos and threes, all helmets, dark leather and rough complexions, and in the middle of them all was Goldilocks himself, not standing taller than the others, but bright and shining by comparison. And where he was, Kíli was never out of shouting distance.

They were barely forty seconds away when suddenly, all heads turned to look down the valley. There was a shout and a rush to mount up, and within those forty seconds they were gone, to a man. The Bentley pulled up at the overlook the bikers had just vacated, and Thorin ran from the car to lean over the parapet and watch the riders’ path down the valley. He came back to the car pale, a look of genuine fear in his eyes, not getting in but staring at out the view.

“Thorin?”

“It’s gone.”

“What’s gone?”

“The road—” he swallowed dryly, clambering back behind the wheel and putting the car in gear. “The road has gone. It’s gone. _Duw mawr,_ my boys are down there—”

He spun the wheels so hard that they kicked up shards of shale, tearing scratches up the bodywork as they sped out onto the road again. They were only forty seconds out. They could make it, they could get there - what they would find was another matter entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm usually either digesting what I just ate, or thinking about what I'm about to eat (or both), the landscape between the Chocolate House and the Blue Tea shack is something of a mysterious, hungry blur in my memory, and I already have an appalling memory for things I haven't stopped to, well, digest. Apologies for the subsequent vagueness of description here.  
> Llyn Ogwen is dark, but it is beautiful, especially when it's frozen over and you can walk on the ice from one end to the other (you never heard so from me though). It's believed by some to be the lake of Nimue, but is better favoured for its trout, which are said to be delicious. I can get behind delicious trout any day.  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the valley road to Bethesda, Thorin and Bilbo encounter an eerie sight, and a worrisome smell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration begets inspiration, and this chapter is broadly dedicated to the ever-tumblring artists of the Middle Earth fandoms, particularly the queen of livestream, [Kaciart](http://kaciart.tumblr.com); master of colours, [hvit-ravn](http://hvit-ravn.tumblr.com); [Lanimalu](http://lanimalu.tumblr.com) with the beautiful lines; the exquisitely nsfw [Luci](http://ladynorthstar.tumblr.com); and of course [Dread](http://dreadelion.tumblr.com), whose very own biker AU is a thing of wonder and glory, and far more exciting than this one-shot. It's artists and ideasmiths like these who keep me encouraged and whose works stop me from jumping ship when I feel low, so thanks for sharing, everyone!

It was Summer in the valley. According to definition, this was typically the warmest, driest season of the year. Unfortunately the weather over northern Wales had stayed true to stereotype, and it had rained heavily for almost an entire fortnight, only brightening over the past few days. The river was bubbling over, the lake was high and jumping with fish, all the squat, gnarly trees growing thick, dense foliage. The valley was alive, painted high into its slopes with vivid shades of green and blue and gold, patches of mossy rock blooming on the shale, dotted with tuffets of flowering grasses. Apple and pear trees bloomed in the orchards below, stubby black cattle nodding gently in their shade. 

But, for all the verdant finery that the rain had brought to Dyffryn Ogwen, it had also done its fair share of damage. The trickle in the valley was a rolling river now, breaking its banks and swamping the lowest fields, which glittered in the sunlight, despite the blanket of mud. The deluge had even worked its way down through the rock, easing the soil away from itself, and high above the road, the land on the valley’s eastern face had long been threatening to slip.

The road clung precariously to the mountainside as it descended drunkenly towards Bethesda, a road which had, since it was first laid down, claimed the lives of many souls who had been too inexperienced, or intoxicated, or just too bloody blasé to survive its narrow lanes and sudden corners. Thorin took this stretch of road very seriously, barely reaching twenty miles per hour and nudging around corners almost cautiously, until he let the car coast to a stop, the way ahead blocked by thirty or forty motorcycles of every shape and size. Some had toppled over as their occupants had raced to do what was needed of them, others stood, still with engines turning over, propped up on their stands or against walls and fenceposts. Bilbo craned his neck to see properly over the dashboard, Thorin’s hand resting on the top of his head, saying “No, don’t look, Bilbo. Don’t look. Stay here.” It was the soft voice he had used only once, long ago, as he had tried, with almost the exact same words, to gently explain that he had just been stabbed. No big deal. Don’t look. Stay calm. And—

“Get the first aid kit.”

 

 

Thorin hadn’t been exaggerating. Tonnes of rock from the mountain above had slipped, leaving a hundred-yard tall scar up the side of the valley, the rubble ripping out trees and walls as it came tumbling down upon the road.

The outside lane and its old stone wall were gone, and what remained of the inside lane was buried under an aggressive delivery of finest Snowdonian slate, a few small pebbles tumbling apologetically down from the heap. Bikes stood here and there, some with engines still running, others tipped onto their sides, panniers knocked open and wing mirrors bent. Bilbo wrestled the first aid box from under his seat and rushed to Thorin’s side as he picked through the motorbikes, looking for his own, for some sign that his nephews were safe.

Fili’s favourite, the deep brown Ariel, had been parked properly, but Kili had evidently been leading the pack. Thick black streaks of rubber led to the point where his Vincent had stopped, side-on to the newly formed blockade. He’d managed to prop the bike up on its stand but the engine rumbled quietly to itself, the raised back wheel sleepily turning more in sympathy than under any power. Thorin killed the ignition and took the key, standing back to stare up at the blockage. Grey dust still rose thickly into the air, weighed down by the last of the valley’s morning mist, and though helmets still rocked where they had been placed, not a soul was in sight.

“Where is everyone?”

“I don’t know, Bilbo, but there’s blood in the air.”

“In… in the air?”

“Someone’s been injured. Severely so, or we wouldn’t be able to smell it.”

Bilbo shuffled his bare feet, fingers tapping on the first-aid box as he clasped it in both hands like a shield, certain that Thorin was scared for his beloved nephews, and unsure that there was anything he could do. Thorin looked forlornly around at the assorted machines and dutifully went about, righting the fallen and quieting engines, and Bilbo moved to the edge of the road, aware that it was more unstable than ever, but not wanting to choke in the miserable cloud that Thorin wore now like armour.

Normally, he was barely tall enough to see over the wall, apart from where the topmost stones had been knocked asunder, but a stretch of the wall had peeled away where it had been hit, and he tentatively peered out through the gap, down into the valley.

Of _course_ they were in the valley. Of course!

“Thorin, I can see them!”

Thorin was at his side in an instant, and over the wall the next moment, thick black hair whipping up behind him as he jumped down the eight-foot drop to the rocky field below, pausing just long enough to look back up at Bilbo, who signalled for him to go ahead and started to pick his way down the scarp with rather more care.

Bilbo had seen Thorin run before, his stocky build belying a bounding stride that could carry him farther and faster than anyone could have guessed, even laden with packs that weighed as much, or more than him. Every muscle in his body was under his command, and when he moved, he did so with power and precision, fairly leaping down the steeply sloping bank, using ancient boulders as stepping stones as he descended into the flat valley fields and headed hotfoot for the gaggle of bodies at the far end of the landslide’s spoil.

With a resigned sigh, Bilbo made it down onto springy grass and followed his kidnapper into the fray.

 

Thorin cast about as he neared the huddle, looking out for a familiar face, and found one - Balin. Dressed for walking rather than riding and with an ancient mobile phone at his ear, his old mentor came away from the group to meet him, his usually gambolling corgis whining quietly around his ankles.

“Thorin, laddie! What are you doing here?”

“Chasing my idiot nephews across hill and dale. Where are they?”

“Here, of course. They’re…” He held up his hand for silence. Someone on the other end of the line started talking to him, and he listened soberly, heading back to the group. As he followed, Thorin saw a space open up in the ring of bodies and a familiar dirty blue jacket came into view, topped by a mess of dark brown hair.

Thorin swayed with momentary relief, and then a pit opened up in his stomach as he looked again.

Kneeling in the half-flooded meadow, Kili held someone’s head steady between his knees, hands pressing down on shoulders to keep them from compounding their injuries, talking to them, voice light despite his heavy frown. A tan jacket with a fox-fur trim, a wave of wet blond hair, and the heaving, mouldering scent of blood.

Thorin pushed forward, calling for Fili, wishing for some useful thing he could do, and Kili turned to look up at him, his look of concern melting seamlessly into one of patient incredulity.

“I would have hoped you’d have learned our names by now, Uncle.”

It wasn’t Fili who lay semi-conscious in his lap. It was a girl, and a familiar one, with a fringe of blonde and neon-pink hair peeping out from the battered visor of her helmet, Fili’s jacket draped carefully over her torso to  keep her as warm as possible, even though she lay in ice-cold silt. This was Heather, the boys’ old school crush. They had fought over which of them was more worthy for months before she’d publicly put them both in their place with very clear terms, the memory of which still humbled them even now. It had done them a world of good.

“She’s going to be fine,” Kili said with conviction, as though he had said so, and so it would be. “Balin’s called the air ambulance, they’re on their way. Heather will be fine.”

She didn’t look fine. She looked awful, wheezing heavily, one leg clearly broken and an arm battered so violently that blood oozed wetly through her leathers, blooming out gruesomely into the flooded field. Three others were bent over her, doing what they could, and Kili was obviously holding her still in case she had injured her neck. There was nothing for Thorin to do for now but pat his nephew gratefully on the shoulder as Bilbo finally caught up, splashing though the flood-meadow, a pink flush in his cheeks and green box still in hand.

“And Fili?” Evidently he was nearby. Fili was not one to shed his beloved jacket or leave his brother alone so easily and he’d be back for them, sodden and bloodstained as they both may be.

“Went with Dwalin to help dig Bryn out. They’re over by the stables.”

Almost on cue there was a shift in the spoil heap, and a shout came from the far end as it spilled a little further out, almost into the river, taking the corner off an old stone hut, a second group of bikers scattering as it fell. There was a cheer as the subject of their rescue stood and dusted himself down, but then Dwalin’s voice rose clear above the crowd, calling for Fili with too much panic. The crowd around Heather jumped as well, as Kili wailed ‘ _Fee!_ ’ in reply, wanting to go immediately, that same sense of cool panic he had felt before sunrise rising in an instinctive and desperate response, a desire to be alongside his brother. Thorin’s hands fell down upon his shoulders once again, voice low as he gave his nephew instructions.

“You, Kili, you save this girl. You save the life in front of you.”

“But Fee—!”

“He’ll be alright. Bilbo and I will go to help him, you stay put and help her.” He bent low and planted a rare, fatherly kiss on Kili’s upturned forehead, trying not to let the sight of rising tears in dark eyes move him to panic himself. The mere suggestion of Kili in tears could break even the coldest heart.

“Save Heather, Kili. You save her. You leave your brother to me.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I'm still writing this. I re-wrote this chapter at least a dozen times, scrapped it twice, and almost quit it completely, but then, thankfully, the muse came back. And now that I've graduated, I might actually be able to spend some time on it, too! As always, please alert me to any horrific mistakes, doubled-up words etc, and if you like it, let me know! I tend to be wordy, and constructive feedback is always welcome. For those who wish to know, Kili's bike is supposed to be a Vincent _Rapide_ , and Fili's an Ariel _Mk2 1000cc Square Four_. I'd like to imagine Heather is a lot like Ramona Flowers, but I haven't thought about it too hard.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rescue can take all sorts of unexpected forms.

He was off again, this time taking Bilbo along with him, the poor man hefted clear of the ground once more and carried over his shoulder, Thorin’s pace barely slowed by the extra weight. The meadow rushed past before Bilbo’s eyes, the cold water splashing up into his face. He snatched at Thorin’s shirt again, gripping tight as though the world would kindly stop jolting around if he did.  
  
He was deposited — very carefully — just where the water started to deepen, as the young man named Bryn was helped away from the rubble, bumped and bruised and clearly scared, but not much worse for wear. Thorin heaved at an old dead tree, roots long since festered in the sodden earth. It toppled without much resistance to form a makeshift bench for the poor lad to sit on. Bilbo’s first aid pack was immediately seized upon, his trembling fingers making no attempt to keep it, and people with better skills than he set about putting its contents to work, just as the helicopter came rumbling into the valley and thrummed through the air towards them.

“You stay here, find me a rope or something,” Thorin said, as Dwalin called for him, “I’ve got to get my boy.”  
  
“Thorin, be careful!”  
  
“I can swim.”  
  
“You can swim alright, _like a grand piano,_ Oakenshield.”  
  
Thorin turned, and his look would have been thunderous if he didn’t harbour such a softness of heart for his dear English friend. He knew he’d pushed too far today but his work still wasn’t done. Stomping back to the fallen trunk, he wrestled his mood into line and curled his hands gently around Bilbo’s face, the warmth of those cheeks tingling against his frozen fingers.  
  
“Bilbo, my friend, I’ll be careful. And when we’re finished here, we’ll take the bikes back up to the Hafod and I’ll treat you to a second breakfast at _tŷ siocoled_ and you can come home and listen to _The Archers_ with Dís for as long as you please but first, Bilbo, _I have got to help my boy._ ”  
  
So saying, he took Bilbo’s hands and cupped them before him, entrusting him with the more precious contents of his pockets: his phone, his pipe and lighter, and his tatty old garage notebook, before shoving his sleeves up over his elbows and wading off into the flood.

 

 

Dwalin was already up to his chest in the middle of the river, clearly struggling to keep his back braced against the flow. Another man, a stranger, did his best to lend support, hauling on Dwalin’s shoulders as Dwalin, coated for walking and clearly not enjoying himself, struggled with a weight in his arms, trying to keep something heavy from being dragged under. He nearly let it slip as Thorin came within reach, and for a moment Fíli vanished from sight before Thorin and Dwalin together hauled his head back above the water, thick gold hair dyed brown with silt.

“You’re a better swimmer than this, Fíli.”

“He got snagged, got pulled in,” Dwalin rumbled hoarsely while Fíli coughed obscenities into the sky. “Barbed wire from the fence or sommet, he’s all wound up in it, cannae pull him loose.”

“Fíli, are you with us?”

“Thorin—”

“Can you hold my hand?”

“Yes,” Fíli spat, “But not for too long.”

“He might still have the strength to sass ye, Thorin, but I cannae hold him all week.”

Fíli held his hand up for Thorin, and they grasped each other tightly around the wrist, Thorin carefully inching downstream until his foot nudged up against Fíli’s trapped leg. He looked back up at them, his eye catching Bilbo pulling a length of heavy, wet rope from the rubble of the stable, a couple of youngsters helping with its weight. Dependable Bilbo.

“Okay Fíli, hold on.”

He held his breath and plunged into the water, eyes screwed shut against whatever might be polluting it, and reached down with his free hand to snatch at the snare.  
His fingers found it and he pulled. Up above, he was dimly aware of Fíli’s yelp of pain bubbling down through the rolling stream, his grip almost slipping for one startling moment. He broke the surface again.

“This is going to hurt, Fíli.”

“You don’t say!”

He dove again, not hesitating this time but feeling for the uppermost band of wire and easing it down Fíli’s calf as gently as he could with only his desensitised fingertips for guidance. How the lad had got so caught up was a wonder of physics and sheer bad luck. The spoil heap had shifted and pushed through a fence, the rusty wire had snapped and sprung back on itself as it broke under the incoming landslide, curling up into a spiral and somehow twisting itself around Fíli as it did so. Thorin rose for another breath of air and down he went again, managing to navigate a booted ankle. One more try and he’d have him free.

Something slipped beneath him as he dove a final time, a log or a boulder rolling away downstream, catching on Fíli’s foot and pulling him under once more. Thorin lost his balance, the jolt causing Fíli to slip from Dwalin’s hold, and for a few terrifying seconds there was nothing but ice-cold water as he was swept downstream, trying to dig his heels in, to find traction.

He did not expect to find it in the form of Bilbo Baggins. Rope in hand, he had channelled the spirit of his famous Took ancestors, run along the riverbank and thrown himself in downstream, scooping Thorin round the waist as he slipped past and shoving the end of the heavy, thick rope into his grip. Thank all the old gods, Fíli was still holding fast to his wrist, standing now, still struggling against the push of the river, but free from whatever had bound him. Thorin grasped the rope in his free hand as Bilbo clung to his shoulders, yelling to the bank to be hauled in, and with the roar of an engine revving up, they were pulled to shore effortlessly. Coughing and shaking, they were manhandled out of the river, and into the arms of unexpected, and welcome, friends.

 

Dís’ tatty sky-blue Leyland flatbed growled almost as menacingly as Dís herself, the rope that Bilbo had salvaged tied securely to its front tow-bar. She wasn’t impressed with anyone, but especially not with Thorin. As Dwalin sagged onto the tree trunk next to a recovering Bryn, and Fíli toppled soggily into the safety of his brother’s arms, she grabbed Thorin by his foremost braids and slammed her forehead into his.

It may have hurt less if she hadn’t been wearing their mother’s silver circlet.

“What in Aulë’s sainted name were you _thinking?_ Thorin _fwccing_ Oakenshield, I will have your idiot hair for this!” She yanked on it again, forcing him to bend down, then kneed him in the chest and kicked him over onto his back. He sprawled in the wet grass, laughing heartily, even as all about looked on in fear.

“Hah, _dear_ sister. I must have done a good job.”

“…Yes,” she conceded, “but you should not have let it be necessary. _Don’t do it again._ ”

The medics were already lifting Heather into the helicopter, her body encased in fibreglass splints to keep her still and straight, and Bryn was being helped along to join her in the hospital. Besides they two, nobody else, not even Fíli, was seriously injured – shallow cuts and bruises only. A half-dozen space blankets were produced for those who’d gotten very wet, each of them promising to visit Oin at his clinic before the week was through, and the air ambulance sputtered into life, rising heavily into the air and swooping away towards Bangor.

Thorin peeled the ruined shirt over his head and slumped down next to Dwalin, Bilbo huddling up close on his other side as Dís fussed over her sons, declaring them fit enough to help load the damaged bikes, including the remains of Heather and Bryn’s utterly totalled tourer, onto the back of her truck.

“Your things are in the cab,” murmured Bilbo.

“My what?”

“Your things. Your pipe and things. I put them in the cab of Dís’ truck.”

“Thank-you, Bilbo.” It wasn’t necessary, but he lifted the side of his silver blanket and draped it over Bilbo’s shoulders. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this. I really shouldn’t have. But what possessed you to throw yourself in like that? You could have been lost!”

“You promised me breakfast at the Chocolate House,” Bilbo reminded him, lips quivering with cold. “You know how to rouse my courage.”  
Thorin chuckled, leaning into Dwalin and pulling Bilbo in against his side, making a mental note to remember that, although Bilbo was as brave as any soldier, he nowhere near as weather-worn. He’d try not to cause him such troubles again.

“What a morning,” he huffed steam into the air. “What an _adventure,_ ” he said with a smile.

Dwalin started to shrug, but relaxed, tousling Thorin’s already tangled hair.

“Don’ make me do that again, ye hear, Thorin? I’m too old to play babysitter any more.”

“I owe you, Dwalin, old friend. I owe you both, for saving Fíli’s life. You don’t know how close we came to that.”

Bilbo chuckled faintly and pushed in closer for more of Thorin’s warmth as Dwalin replied, “Damned sure I do. You know I cannae swim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can never imagine Dís as anything less than the one person with the authority and nerve to put Thorin absolutely in his place. Not a gentle chiding like Gandalf but a proper, full-on Mrs Weasley scolding, complete with chores and bed with no supper. In my mind, she takes many physical forms, but her spirit is always somewhere between matriarch and fiery goddess. She'd have to be, surrounded by fools such as these.
> 
> Not much more to go now! Many thanks for reading, and thanks for all your lovely comments, especially those that came just when I needed a boot to the backside to get me back on track. Your positive feedback has been delicious and nutritious. I honestly can't thank you enough!


End file.
